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by anah childes
e f-cked for an hour.
Or so.
He, riding my tides. I, allowing him to dive deep into the well of me.
A quill—his penis—drew my ink, writing sexual oohs and ahhs.
When all was written
When all epiphanies were climaxed and agreed upon,
I scattered new language--he dug and dove
And the banter about neat yards
("How long have you been in your home?"
Three years now!
"Well you know the landscaping is the hardest part?")
lay sickly on itinerant souls.
I, marooned alone on a distant Jung shore of "meditation, not awake, not death—certainly not NOW"
Just penned to quiet.
A quill lay still--and in the course of it all
5, 10, 15 words spoken, heard
his hand--a placed foot--a bridge of touch never separated "one of one".
"won't be a tomorrow"
"won't be a slip of stay"
coffee for me—means thoughts away—albuquerque, albuquerque.
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Return to Sauce*Box, Winter 2000-01